The Case of Horcruxes
by Innocenzo
Summary: Thrust into a hunt for Horcruxes. Dumbledore left Harry, Hermione and Ron one final clue: 221B Baker Street. With the clock ticking and a war looming over their heads, the Golden Trio enlist the help of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Set before The Reichenbach Fall.
1. Chapter 1

**A Case of Horcruxes**

 **Disclaimer:** Copyright J.K. Rowling & Arthur Conan Doyle

* * *

 **Prologue:** The Will of Albus Dumbledore

* * *

Scrimgeour sat opposite them on the sagging armchair, staring judgingly at the three school students opposite him, sitting side by side. Once they had settled, he spoke.

"I have some questions for the three of you, and I think it will be best if we do it individually. If you two," he pointed at Harry and Hermione, "can wait upstairs, I will start with Ronald."

"We're not going anywhere," said Harry, while Hermione nodded vigorously. "You can speak to us together, or not at all."

Scrimgeour gave Harry a cold, appraising look. Harry had the impression that the Minister was not impressed with his insolence and wondered whether it was worthwhile opening hostilities this early.

"Very well, then, together," he said, shrugging. He cleared his throat. "I am here, as I'm sure you know, because of Albus Dumbledore's will."

Harry, Ron and Hermione looked at one another.

"A surprise, apparently! You were not aware, then, that Dumbledore had left you anything?"

"A - all of us?" said Ron. "Me and Hermione too?"

"Yes, all of -"

But Harry interrupted.

"Dumbledore died over a month ago. Why has it taken this long to give us what he left?"

"Isn't it obvious?" said Hermione, before Scrimgeour could answer. "They wanted to examine whatever he's left us. You had no right to do that!" she said, and her voice trembled slightly.

"I had every right," said Scrimgeour dismissively. "The Decree for Justifiable Confiscation gives the Ministry the power to confiscate contents of a will-"

"That law was created to stop wizards passing on Dark Artefacts," said Hermione, "and the Ministry is supposed to have powerful evidence that the deceased's possessions are illegal before seizing them! Are you telling me that you thought Dumbledore was trying to pass us something cursed?"

"Are you planning to follow a career in Magical Law, Miss Granger?" asked Scrimgeour.

"No, I'm not," retorted Hermione. "I'm hoping to do some good in the world."

Ron laughed. Scrimegeour's eyes flickered towards him and away again as Harry spoke.

"So why have you decided to let us have our things now? Can't think of a pretext to keep them?"

"No, it'll be because the thirty-one days are up," said Hermione at once. "They can't keep the objects longer than that unless they can prove that they're dangerous. Right?"

"Would you say that you were close to Dumbledore, Ronald?" asked Scrimgeour, ignoring Hermione. Ron looked startled.

"Me? Not - not really ... it was always Harry who ..."

Ron looked around at Harry and Hermione, to see Hermione giving him the _stop-talking-now!_ sort of look but the damage was done: Sricmgeour looked as though he had heard exactly what he had expected, and wanted, to hear. He swooped like a bird of prey upon Ron's answer.

"If you were not very close to Dumbledore, how do you account for the fact that he remembered you in his will? He made exceptionally few bequests. The vast majority of his possessions - his private library, his magical instruments and other personal effects - were left to Hogwarts. Why do you think you were singled out?"

"I ... dunno," said Ron, "I ... when I say we weren't close ... I mean, I think he liked me ..."

"You're being modest, Ron," said Hermione, "Dumbledore was very fond of you."

This was stretching the truth to the breaking point; as far as Harry knew, Ron and Dumbledore had never been alone together, and direct contact between them was negligible. However, Scrimgeour did not seem to be listening. He put his hand inside his cloak and drew out a drawstring pouch much larger than the one Hagrid had given Harry. From it he removed a scroll of parchment, which he unrolled and read aloud.

"' _The Last Will and Testament of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore'_ ... yes, here we are ... ' _to Ronald Bilius Weasley, I leave my Deluminator, in hope that he will remember me when he uses it._ '"

Scrimgeour took from the bag an object that Harry had seen before: it looked like a silver cigarette lighter, but it had, he knew, the power to suck all light from a place, and restore it, with a simple click. Scrimgeour leaned forward and passed the Deluminator to Ron, who took it and turned it over in his fingers, looking stunned.

"That is a valuable object," said Scrimgeour, watching Ron. "It may even me unique. Certainly, it is of Dumbledore's own design. Why would he have left you an item so rare?"

Ron shook his head, looking bewildered.

"Dumbledore must have taught thousands of students," persevered Scrimgeour, "Yet the only ones he remembered in his will are you three. Why is that? To what use did he think you would put his Deluminator, Mr. Weasley?"

"Put out lights, I s'pose," mumbled Ron. "What else could I do with it?"

Evidently, Scrimgeour had no suggestions. After squinting at Ron for a moment or two, he turned back to Dumbledore's will.

" _'To Miss Hermione Jean Granger, I leave my copy of_ The Tales of Beedle the Bard _, in hope that she will find it entertaining and instructive.'_ "

Scrimgeour now pulled out the bag a small book that looked as ancient as the copy of _Secrets of the Darkest Arts_ upstairs. Its binding was stained and peeling places. Hermione took it from Scrimgeour without a word. She held the book in her lap and gazed at it. Harry saw that the title was in runes, he had never learned to read them. As he looked, a tear splashed on the embossed symbols.

"Why do you think Dumbledore left you that book, Miss Granger?" asked Scrimgeour.

"He ... he knew I liked books," said Hermione in a thick voice, mopping her eyes with her sleeve.

"But why that particular book?"

"I don't know. He must have thought I'd enjoy it."

"Did you ever discuss codes, or any means of passing secret messages, with Dumbledore?"

"No, I didn't," said Hermione, still wiping her eyes on her sleeve. "And if the Ministry hasn't found any hidden codes in this book in thirty-one days, I doubt that I will."

She suppressed a sob. They were wedged together so tightly that Ron had difficulty extracting his arm to put it around Hermione's shoulders. Scrimgeour turned back to the will.

" _'To Harry James Potter,'_ " he read, and Harry's insides contracted with a sudden excitement, " _'I leave the Snitch he caught in his first Quidditch match at Hogwarts, as a reminder of the rewards of perseverance and skill.'_ "

As Scrimgeour pulled out the tiny, walnut-sized golden ball, its silver wings fluttered rather feebly and Harry could not help feeling a definite sense of anticlimax.

"Why did Dumbledore leave you this Snitch?" asked Scrimgeour.

"No idea," said Harry. "For the reasons you just read out, I suppose ... to remind me what you can get if you ... persevere and whatever it was."

"You think this is a mere symbolic keepsake, then?"

"I suppose so," said Harry. "What else could it be?"

"I'm asking the questions," said Scrimgeour, shifting his chair a little closer to the sofa. Dusk was really falling outside, now; the marquee beyond the windows towered ghostly white over the hedge.

"I notice that your birthday cake is in the shape of a Snitch," Scrimgeour said to Harry. "Why is that?"

Hermione laughed derisively.

"Oh, it can't be a reference to the fact Harry's a great Seeker, that's way too obvious," she said. "There must be a secret message from Dumbledore hidden in the icing!"

"I don't think there's anything hidden in the icing," said Scrimgeour, "but a Snitch would be a very good hiding place for a small object. You know why, I'm sure?"

Harry shrugged. Hermione, however, answered: Harry thought that answering questions correctly was so deeply ingrained in her that she could not suppress the urge.

"Because Snitches have flesh memories," she said.

"What?" Said Harry and Ron together; both considered Hermione's Quidditch knowledge negligible.

"Correct," said Scrimgeour. "A Snitch is not touched by bare skin before it is released, not even by the maker, who wears gloves. It carries an enchantment by which it can identify the first human to lay hands upon it, incase of disputed capture. This Snitch," he held up the tiny ball, "will remember your touch, Potter. It occurs to me that Dumbledore, who had prodigious magical skill, whatever his other faults, might have enchanted this Snitch so that it will open only for you."

Harry's heart was beating rather fast. He was sure that Scrimgeour was right. How could he avoid taking the Snitch with his bare hands in front of the Minister?

"You don't say anything," said Scrimgeour. "Perhaps you already know what the Snitch contains?"

"No," said Harry, still wondering how he could appear to touch the Snitch without really doing so. If only he knew Legilimency, really knew it, and could read Hermione's mind; he could practically hear her brain whirring beside him.

"Take it," said Scrimgeour quietly.

Harry met the Minister's and knew he had no option but to obey. He held his hand out and Scrimgeour leaned forwards again and placed the Snitch, slowly and deliberately, into Harry's palm.

Nothing happened.

* * *

In the aftermath of the disappointed and angry departure of the Minister, Harry's birthday celebrations continued. However, the Trio were far too excited to enjoy the delicious meal that Molly had made properly. They all ate rather hurriedly and then, after a hasty chorus of ' _Happy Birthday_ ' and much gulping of cake, the party broke up.

"Meet me upstairs," Harry whispered to Hermione while they helped Mrs. Weasley restore the garden to its normal state. "After everyone's gone to bed."

Up in the attic room, Ron examined his Deluminator and Harry filled Hagrid's Moleskin purse, not with gold, but with those items he most prized, apparently worthless though some of them were: the Marauder's Map, the shard of Sirius' enchanted mirror and R.A.B.'s locket. He pulled the strings tight and slipped the purse around his neck, then sat holding the old Snitch and watching its wings flutter feebly. At last, Hermione tapped on the door and tiptoed inside.

"Muffiliato," she whispered, waving her wand in the direction of the stairs.

"Thought you didn't approve of that spell?" said Ron.

"Times change," said Hermione. "Now, show us that Deluminator."

Ron obliged at once. Holding it up in front of him, he clicked it. The solitary lamp they had lit went out at once.

"The thing is," whispered Hermione through the dark, "we could have achieved that with Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder."

There was a small _click_ , and the ball of light from the lamp flew back to the ceiling and illuminated them all once more.

"Still, it's cool," said Ron, a little defensively. "And from what they said, Dumbledore invented it himself!"

"I know, but surely he wouldn't have singled you out in his will just to help us turn out lights!"

"D'you think he knew the Ministry would confiscate his will and examine everything he'd left us?" asked Harry.

"Definitely," said Hermione. "He couldn't tell us in the will why he was leaving us these things, but that still doesn't explain ..."

"... why he couldn't have given us a hint when he was alive?" asked Ron.

"Well, exactly," said Hermione, now flicking through _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_. "If these things are important enough to pass on right under the nose of the Ministry, you'd think he'd have let us know why ... unless he thought it was obvious?"

"Thought wrong, then, didn't he?" said Ron. "I always he was mental. Brilliant, and everything, but cracked. Leaving Harry an old Snitch - what the hell was that about?"

"I've no idea," said Hermione. "When Scrimgeour made you take it, Harry, I was so sure that something was going to happen!"

"Yeah, well," said Harry, his pulse quickening as he raised the Snitch in his fingers. "I wasn't going to try too hard in front of Scrimgeour, was I?"

"What do you mean?" asked Hermione.

"The Snitch I caught in my first ever Quidditch match?" said Harry. "Don't you remember?"

Hermione looked simply bemused. Ron, however, gasped, pointing frantically from Harry to the Snitch and back again until he found his voice.

"That was the one you nearly swallowed!"

"Exactly," said Harry, and with his heart beating fast, he pressed his mouth to the Snitch.

It did not open.

Frustration and bitter disappointment welled up inside him: he lowered the golden sphere, but then Hermione cried out.

"Writing! There's writing on it, quick, look!"

He nearly dropped the Snitch is surprise and excitement. Hermione was quite right. Engraved upon the smooth golden surface, where seconds before there had been nothing, were five words written in the thin slanting handwriting that Harry recognized as Dumbledore's:

 _ **221B Baker Street**_

"There's more on the other side," pressed Ron.

Harry turned it over.

 _ **I open at the close.**_

He had barely read them when the words vanished again.

" _'I open at the close_ _...'_ What's that supposed to mean?"

Hermione and Ron shook their heads, looking blank.

"I open at the close ... at the _close_ ... I open at the close ..."

But no matter how often they repeated the words, with many different inflections, they were unable to wring any more meaning from them.

"And the sword," said Ron finally, when they had at last abandoned their attempts to derive meaning in the Snitch's inscription. "Why did he want Harry to have the sword?"

Hermione and Harry shrugged, their guesses as good as Ron's.

"There's one thing we know for sure, though," spoke Hermione.

"What's that?" asked Ron.

"The address: _'221B Baker Street',_ " she replied.

"D'you suppose it's a safe house?" Ron asked anxiously.

"Why does that name sound familiar?" asked Harry, looking specifically at Hermione. She smiled, knowing that Harry had caught on.

"Because that's the address of a private muggle investigator: _Sherlock Holmes_. And I think Dumbledore wants us to enlist his help."

Harry remembered reading an article about the infamous investigator in the newspaper recently. Mr. Holmes was causing quite a stir in London.

"How's a muggle investigator going to help us hunt Horcruxes?" asked Ron, not looking sold by the idea.

"Perhaps he knows Dumbledore," Hermione said simply.

"But a muggle?" Ron repeated with dubiety.

Harry couldn't blame him, a muggle would stand no chance opposite a wand-holder, but it was a starting point.

"Dumbledore wouldn't have told us to go without a reason ... and I don't know about you, but I have no idea where to start with this search so ... I think we should start our trail with Sherlock Holmes."

"221B Baker Street, you say?" Ron repeated, slowly warming up to the idea when he realized that Harry was right. They really did have no idea where to begin and if Dumbledore had left them a clue, they should take it.

" **221B Baker Street.** " Hermione and Harry confirmed.

* * *

 **A.N/** Ah! So I was totally inspired by a **Tumblr** (God bless Tumblr!, link to said post is in my bio) post I saw of Hermione, Harry and Ron reaching out to Sherlock Holmes for help with the Horcrux hunt! So copyright to the wonderful ' _fancypantswatson_ ' who came up with this amazing idea and copyright to J.K. Rowling for this prologue, 'Section 1' was taken straight out of Deathly Hallows to get this story started ... so to speak. This will be a short story, no more than fifteen chapters at most, I do hope that you enjoyed this chapter - the end especially and click ahead to the first real chapter!

Reviews are welcome as always.


	2. Chapter 2

**A Case of Horcruxes**

 **Disclaimer:** Copyright J.K. Rowling & Arthur Conan Doyle

* * *

 **I:** Meeting Sherlock Holmes

* * *

"I still think this is a terrible idea," said Ron, shifting uncomfortably among the overcrowded carriage of the Metropolitan tube in rush hour.

"Excuse me," said a woman behind them, before she barged past him with her large handbag to exit at Great Portland Street.

"Oi! Watch it!" said Ron, rubbing the back of his head where he had been struck.

Harry and Hermione looked amused, which created a stark contrast to the tired, haunted look in their eyes. They were all exhausted, having been made to flee the wedding reception and subsequently being attacked in a cafe by death eaters. Only the news, from Arthur's Patronus, that everyone else was safe eased their guilt and worry - to a certain extent. They all knew in the back of their minds, though, that this would be their lives for the foreseeable future ... until they destroyed all the Horcruxes.

"Just one more stop, Ron," Hermione said reassuringly.

Ron had been somewhat terrified of getting onto 'a moving metal contraption' - as he called it. But, Hermione couldn't think of a place to apparate to in busy London without catching someone's attention.

' _The next stop is Baker Street._ '

The intercom announced. Ron looked towards the ceiling with confusion, wondering how muggles had managed to get a 'Sonorus' charm to work for them without magic. They all fell slightly to the left as the train pulled up at the station.

"Right then," said Hermione, leading the way.

Ron and Harry followed, minding the gap between the station and the platform, just as the voice through the intercom (annoyingly) repeated several times.

"I can see why Dad is so amazed by things muggles create," said Ron to no one in particular as the walked through the barrier using his ticket, watching with wonder as the machine ate up his paper ticket.

Hermione got out her map of London and led them down the busy main road, crossing and taking a left turn until at last, they arrived at 221B Baker Street ... it hadn't been that far from the station at all. They all paused, standing outside the house, staring at the black door with trepidation.

Taking a deep breath, Harry spared his best friends a glance before stepping forward and grasped the large brass doorknob. _Once, twice, thrice_ ... he knocked before he stepped back and joined his friends. The street was quite busy behind them, which was slightly disconcerting as it prevented them from apparating or performing magic. Ron eyed Speedy's Cafe with interest, the aroma of breakfast wafting through the air was intoxicating. His stomach growled despite the fact that they'd all had a bit of toast before they'd left. Before Hermione could comment on Ron's insatiable appetite, the door swung open.

A kind face of an old woman stared at them openly and for a brief moment, they all wondered if they had the right address. She had short, curly, mousey-brown hair and her rosy face was peppered with age lines. Her eyes, however, exuded a gentleness one would expect from their grandmother.

"Oh, hello there dears!" she said brightly. "What can I do for you?"

Hermione stepped forward.

"Hello," Hermione said politely, her face tilting into view from behind Harry. "We're looking for a Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Have we the right address?"

"Oh, another one of Sherlock's cases then?" She asked before looking over the three of them with confusion. "You look a little bit young to be coming to Sherlock, what kind of trouble are you three in then? Oh, never you mind, Sherlock can sort you out in a tick. He helped me with my divorce you know? Got me quite a bit of money from it too. Did you make an appointment dears?" The woman rambled as she ushered them inside.

Hermione looked taken aback, as she had not even considered the thought of having to make an appointment to see London's most sought detective. She sent Harry and Ron a panicked look.

"Professor ... uh, Dumbledore sent us," said Harry, hoping that it would mean something.

The old woman didn't seem to recognize the name.

"Is he a friend of Sherlock's then?" she asked.

Harry shrugged.

"That's what we're trying to find out," said Hermione. "Professor Dumbledore ... unfortunately ... passed away recently and he left us this address."

"Oh! How terrible! Was it a murder?" she asked sounding as normal as one would inquire about the weather.

"We-well ... I suppose you co-could say that," Ron stammered, sending Harry a look that clearly said he thought she was crazy.

"A Professor murdered!" she exclaimed. "Sherlock would love that!"

The trio looked insulted, but the woman paid them no mind.

"Here we are," she said before she knocked on the closed apartment door.

"Coming!" came a male voice from inside.

Hermione, Ron, and Harry straightened up, this was it. The door swung open and a male, in his late-thirties, with greyish-brown hair stood inside the threshold.

"Ah! Mrs. Hudson!" he said, finally giving a name to the woman. "Having a lovely morning? And who is this?" he questioned.

"Good Morning John, lovely day isn't it?" said Mrs. Hudson as she ushered everyone into the room. "These young people are here to see Sherlock. Another case for him I think, go on, sit yourselves down dears. I'll make you some tea," she said as she walked through to the kitchen.

* * *

John Watson stared at the three teenagers in front of him, wondering what on earth they could possibly have for Sherlock to solve. They barely looked old enough to be out of school. They were dressed quite normal, so they couldn't be of Sherlock's Homeless Network and the way in which they moved told John that they were more dangerous than they looked ... which wasn't at all comforting. The boys flanked around the girl like protective bodyguards as they sat gingerly on the leather sofa Sherlock often liked to lie on. The girl carried a purple beaded bag that could only carry a phone and some money for it was so small; it clashed horribly with the rest of her outfit that it stood out to him as irregular; but she clutched onto it like it was a lifeline - like it was carrying their entire belongings inside - which was impossible.

Living with Sherlock tended to do that to you ... overanalysing those around you, that is, spotting the impossible and the strange.

To be frank, the three of them looked too strange. The darker-haired boy wore large circular glasses that laid askew on his straight face. The frames were laughably outdated and so old-fashioned that John would have deduced he was from a poor family had he not caught sight if the gleaming gold pocket watch peeking through his quality pair of jeans. The taller boy was slightly harder to deduce than the others, he had no telltale signs, nor abnormal physical features - aside from his too-long nose, but one thing John's intuitive eyes did catch was that he looked the most uncomfortable of the three.

"John! Have you seen my jacket?" Sherlock called from the other room.

John rolled his eyes.

"On the back of your door where you always keep it!" he replied with little patience.

"So, you're here to see Sherlock are you?" asked John as he turned back towards them.

"..."

"Yes," said the girl.

"And how do you think that he can help you, with whatever it is?" asked John as he walked over to the table to pick up his pad of paper to take notes.

"If you don't mind ... Mr ..." the girl said again.

John was beginning to wonder if the other two spoke at all.

"Mr. Watson but you can call me John."

"... right, _John_ , we would really rather prefer to speak to Mr. Holmes." She didn't mean it in an offensive way, but John couldn't help but feel a bit stung.

"Yes, I understand that, but I screen the cases, Sherlock doesn't have time for issues of bullying at school or that sort," said John, with an almost tired tone as though silly requests was a normal occurrence for them.

"I can assure you, Mr. Watson, that this case is far from simple school bullying," Hermione said tersely.

John blinked with a stutter of his eyebrows at her tone.

"John, have you seen my watch?" A tall, dark, curly-haired man asked as he walked into the room, completely ignoring the presence of the three teenagers.

"On the table, Sherlock," said John.

Sherlock walked over to the table and picked up the accessory, still oblivious or blatantly ignoring their company - one can never be too sure with Sherlock. When Sherlock picked up his wool coat, John knew that the man had no interest in his guests. He was, no doubt, going to leave without as much as an introduction.

"Here we are," Mrs. Hudson said as she walked into the room with a teapot and five cups and saucers, all balanced on a tray. She placed it down on the table in front of their guests, the girl stood up to help her and Sherlock's attention was finally on them.

"Thank you, dear," Mrs. Hudson patted her shoulder before leaving.

John knew straight away that Sherlock was reading them, he followed his gaze, wondering if he had picked out some of the things that Sherlock would no doubt comment on later on - only to show off, really. The bored expression on his face changed immediately. It was barely noticeable, but John had spent a year with the man and knew that he had spotted something interesting. John followed his gaze and stared with befuddlement as he found himself looking at their forearms.

" _Oh_ ," Sherlock whispered next to him, sounding extremely intrigued, and perhaps the slightest bit surprised. " _Oh_."

The detective abandoned his coat and sat, quite primly, across from them. His right foot came to rest atop his left knee and the tips of his fingers touched against each other. Breathing deeply, he spoke.

"You have five minutes, talk."

"Five minutes?" the redhead asked at once, as though thinking the task impossible.

"Ron!" the girl chided, the boy shut up immediately.

"Mr. Holmes," the girl said, turning towards Sherlock. "We're from Ho-"

"Yes, yes. I know that already. Get to the reason why you are here."

The three teenagers looked at him gobsmacked. John wanted to know why.

"How could you possibly know?" the girl asked sharply, her eyes showed that she clearly did not believe him.

"That you're from Hogwarts or-"

" _How did you_ -?" the dark haired boy stuttered.

Sherlock fixed them with a level stare. There was a gleam in his eyes. John groaned silently. Here we go.

" _You_ think that you have the answers to almost all questions and have no doubt been put down for it your entire life ... you recently had some cosmetic surgery done to your teeth but you are still getting used to not having to cover your overgrown _buck-teeth_ with your _lips_. _You_ have problems with confidence, no doubt brought up in a rather large family where you are overshadowed by your siblings and you find yourself in need of having to prove your worth ... but don't bother. _You_ have stunted growth for your age, no doubt malnourished while growing up due to your adoptive parents' obvious favour towards your sibling, no, _cousin_. The three of you show signs of PTSD, _you especially_ ," he pointed to the dark-haired one. "And most importantly, the three of you have your wands stashed against a holster on your right arm. I could go on forever, would you like me to continue?"

The trio sat mutely, looking afraid, astonished and slightly angry.

John rolled his eyes but then he caught onto what Sherlock had said.

"Hang on, wands ... you said _wands_ , Sherlock ..."

"Yes, I am aware of what I said John," replied Sherlock.

"But ... _wands_ , what do you mean by _wands_?"

"Of the magical, witchcraft and wizardry sort, John. Do keep up."

John let out a derisive half-snort-half-laugh before he quickly sobered up upon the concerned look upon the teenager's faces.

"Hang on, you're not joking ... how could you not be joking?"

"Do I need to spell it out for you John?"

"You just broke the Statute!" Ron exclaimed, standing up from his seat, holding a ... stick ... directed at Sherlock.

"Ron!" the girl warned as she tugged urgently on his sleeve, pulling him back down to the couch again.

"I don't understand ... what's going on here and why are you pointing a stick at him?" John asked.

"Not a stick, John, a _wand_ ," Sherlock repeated, sounding bored.

"Don't tell me that magic exists!" John looked frantically towards Sherlock, this was too much crazy for him. He felt as though he had stepped into the Twilight Zone.

"Alright. Magic doesn't exist, John," Sherlock said glibly. John's eyes widened and his face paled.

"How could you know?" the dark haired asked.

"Are we going to keep rehashing this fact? Or are we going to get to the matter? Because you have about a minute left to explain your case to me," Sherlock replied, nonplussed.

"We're on a hunt for Horcruxes," the girl started. "Voldemort-"

"You-Know-Who, yes I've heard of him. Although, I thought he was dead," said Sherlock, looking directly at the one with glasses. The boy's eyes widened. It seemed as though Sherlock knew a lot more than they all had thought.

"Well ... he's back ... he tied his soul to this world ... Horcruxes, they're called ... we need to find them and destroy them ... if we want to have a chance of winning the war." The girl dutifully explained, keeping the details to the minimum. Whether it was to keep within the time limit or to hold back information until she was sure they could be trusted, John was not sure.

"War? What war?" John asked faintly, never feeling more lost in his life. He was ignored, of course.

"So will you help us?" she asked Sherlock.

"How many?" Sherlock replied, not answering her question, though looking very intrigued.

John knew that look. It was the look Sherlock had when he finally found a case worthy of his attention.

"Seven, we think. But we've already found one," the shorter boy replied.

"I assume it's dangerous?"

"... a little."

Sherlock rested his hands on the arms of his chair, drumming his fingers against the fabric. John knew he was purposefully delaying it, he knew that his friend was more than a little excited by this project - whatever the hell it was.

"Well, it's obvious you need my help because you've actually found two," Sherlock replied at last.

Everyone turned to look at the detective with confusion.

"No, we haven't," the redhead said, looking determined.

Sherlock didn't turn his gaze but remained intent on staring directly at the other boy.

"Yes, you have." He said without breaking his gaze.

John didn't need to be in on the details to know that that was bad.

* * *

 **A.N/** Again some of the lines used in this has to be credited to Tumblr. Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter!


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